Just Like Daddy
by Rhianwen
Summary: “He tinkers with everything, and blows up at least half of what he tinkers with! I just don't know where he gets it.” A father's lament. SyndromeMirage domestic fluff.


Just Like Daddy

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Disclaimer: The characters herewithin are not the creations or property of the author. They are being used here without permission, as no one in their right mind would approve something like this.

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Summary: "He tinkers with everything, and blows up at least half of what he tinkers with! I just don't know where he gets it." A father's lament. Heavily AU Syndrome/Mirage domestic fluff.

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WHUMP!

Almost the same instant she finished fastening the last of the front doors many locks and tucking her keys into her purse, Mirage found herself flat on her back, trying dazedly to pick up the fragments of her blissful Sunday-afternoon-stroll-induced haze. After a long moment and a heroic effort, she managed to lift her head enough to stare disbelievingly at the redheaded streak that had shot across the room, taking them both effectively to the floor.

"Thank God you're back," he breathed fervently against her neck, as though in response to her bewildered look, snuggling ecstatically away.

"Buddy?" she finally managed as he pushed back, stood, and helped her up. "What's wrong?"

He glared defensively.

"Why does a guy need a reason to be glad to see his beautiful, loving wife?"

"Buddy," she repeated, worry and confusion morphing into sternness in record time. "What's wrong?"

Defensive outrage morphed into sheepish despair just as quickly.

"It's that _kid_," he replied in something that narrowly escaped being a wail. "He's totally out of control!"

She sighed, closing her eyes briefly and sending up a quick prayer for a soothing shower of Advil to rain down upon the scene sometime soon.

"I was only gone for an hour; what damage could he have done in an _hour_?"

"He blew up the garage."

A long, oppressive moment of silence followed, during which the young woman mulled this over.

"With or without the cars inside?"

"W-without!" the former Nefarious Villain sputtered indignantly. "C'mon, Alex; the kid causes explosions every other day; did you really think I was going to leave him alone with the cars?"

"One would _think_ you might not leave him alone at all, taking into account that he causes explosions, as you say, _every other day_."

"I had to go to the bathroom, okay?"

She stared.

"He blew up the garage," she began slowly, peeking warily around the corner into the hallway, as though expecting a burst of flame to shoot out at her, "while you were in the washroom?"

"What, you thought I was going to leave him alone to take a boat tour or something?"

The blonde sighed wearily, the peaceful contentment of Sunday afternoon all but completely evaporated by now. The redhead echoed it, wondering wistfully what this 'peace' thing might be like.

"I don't know where he gets it from."

Mirage lifted one eyebrow.

"The insistence upon tinkering with everything he can get his hands on, and the corresponding penchant for blowing up at least half of what he tinkers with." She paused. "Simon." She paused again. "Our _son_ Simon." Another pause. "No idea at all?"

Syndrome made an impatient noise, and a sweeping gesture of similar impatience.

"No, but I'm guessing you have one."

She hid a smile.

"I could be thinking of a different husband, but weren't you the one who blew up your elementary school because you were trying to help the class pet hamster lose weight by motorizing his wheel?"

"I was seven!"

"And he's five. Don't you still have scars from Lego shrapnel from when you tried to 're-imagine' the present your grandmother got you for your fifth birthday?"

"Don't talk about that," he growled. "Do you have any idea how much it hurts to have a Lego shoved up your nose at high velocity? I still have nightmares." He shuddered, then pouted at his loving, beautiful, and severely annoyed wife. "Anyway, I did get over it, you know. By the time I was ten, the explosions had nearly stopped. By the time I was twelve, things only exploded when I wanted them to."

"Wonderful," Mirage said dryly. "Only when you wanted them to. I suppose that means we have thirteen more years of property damage to look forward to, because _someone_ doesn't want to 'stifle his creativity'."

Buddy, who had just dropped to the couch and rested his chin in his hand despondently, straightened up and gave a disbelieving snort.

"Creativity nothing, Alex. This is gonna stop right now. Do you have any idea how long it'll take to get Mrs. Callaghan off our backs about her cat?

Mirage, who had just turned to the closet to hang up her coat, whipped back around again.

"What about her cat?" she asked ominously.

In an instant, determination to lay down the law once and for all morphed into soothing reassurance with a hint of nervousness.

"Hey, don't worry about it," he pleaded, up from the couch and wrapping one arm around her shoulders. "Cats are cheap, right? She can get a new one. And it wasn't really Simon's fault; if the cat didn't want any trouble, it shouldn't have been sitting on the rock tumbler when it exploded."

She gave a despairing groan as he urged her down onto the couch next to him.

"Just like the hamster shouldn't have been on the wheel when _it_ exploded. I'm almost afraid to ask what he did next..."

Syndrome rubbed his eyes wearily.

"Well, I came outside and went looking for him, and he ran away and hid behind a rake! I wonder who he got THAT from," he finished, crossing his arms and eyeing her pointedly.

She glared.

"That's not funny."

He scratched his head.

"Huh?"

Mirage sighed.

"Do you want me to go talk to him?"

"Well, _I _can't talk to him – he's hiding behind the fridge! I can't fit back there!"

"Watch it, little man," she said sharply.

"Hey, was that a height joke, Twiggy?" he demanded, outraged.

_Methinks the boy does not learn_, a fly meandering back and forth across the wall reflected sadly as a dark, brooding, distinctly Apocalyptic change came over the scene.

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"Mommy and Daddy are doing it again," an adorably freckled little boy with vividly red hair and entrancing golden-green eyes sighed in faint irritation as first Daddy, then Mommy carrying a throw pillow, bolted past his hiding place.

His hiding place was not, of course, behind the stove, as a man with a deep love of teasing his wife into violent reaction had claimed, but wedged into the tiny compartment of space between the computer desk and the wall, the sort that only a five-year old child could possibly compact sufficiently to fit into.

Simon shook his head at the silliness of grown-ups. What the heck did _this toothpick can still rock your world_ mean, anyway?

Then, as a thought meandered across the corners of his mind not consumed entirely with candy and the most efficient methods of obtaining it, he brightened.

"I guess that means it's safe to come out now."

Then, in the act of crawling out, he froze, recalling something that that older kid he talked to sometimes at recess, Jack-Jack or somefin', had told him regarding the correlation between a similar chase scene occurring in the Parr household and the revelation not long after that the family's _three_ children was soon to become _four_.

"Does this mean I'm gonna have a new brudder or sister soon?"

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End Notes: Hee! This was fun, if a little disgustingly cutesy. I like the idea of Syndrome as a disgruntled father, and Mirage as a despairing wife watching her husband desperately trying to figure out this hyperactive bundle of energy.


End file.
